A Love Meant To Be

Chapter 4

Later that night, quiet in her dorm room, string lights glowing, Tessa likely asleep on the other bed, and Raya curled up with her journal. She's not just upset—she's processing, determined, and trying to put her fire into words before it consumes her.

“Raya’s Journal”

March 14th. Late. Too late.

I should be sleeping.

I have class tomorrow, and Tessa's already drifted off mid-scroll, clutching her phone like a teddy bear. But here I am again—writing because if I don’t, my chest might actually explode.

I didn’t get it.

The leadership. The one thing I’ve been working for since last semester. The hours of planning, the endless volunteering, the early arrivals, the late nights… the ideas, the effort, the heart.

All of it. Ignored. Skipped over.

For him.

Ryan Reynolds.

Westbridge’s golden boy. The quiet storm. The guy who shows up twice a semester, dazzles a room with a cryptic metaphor, and then vanishes like he’s too busy being profound somewhere else.

And now he’s our leader?

Funny.

No—infuriating.

I’m not mad because he’s talented. God, I’ve read his pieces. He’s good. Annoyingly good. Smart, articulate, and sharp as a damn scalpel. But he didn’t earn this. Not like I did. Not with the sweat and the constant presence and the belief that this club was more than a bullet point on a resume.

I was supposed to be the leader.

I had everything lined up. In my head. In my heart. I felt it.

And then Langston dropped his name like it was inevitable.

Like I didn’t exist.

It hurt. More than I want to admit.

I smiled. I nodded. I didn’t cause a scene—because I’m not the girl who breaks. I’m the girl who builds.

But when he came up to me afterward… when he stood there with that calm little “I suppose I should say hello,” like we were equals in this? Like this wasn’t a war he unknowingly walked into?

I wanted to scream.

Instead, I smiled. My best weapon.

He thinks he can just walk in, charm his way through this festival, and leave with a polished event and another star on his record.

Well, here’s the thing:

If he’s leading, I’m not following.

I’m not stepping aside. I’m not letting my efforts be erased.

I’ll work with him. Fine. I care too much about this festival not to.

But I’m going to shine so brightly, he’ll need my light to see his way through this.

I’ll show him exactly why they should’ve chosen me.

Not out of spite.

But because I know I’m capable.

And next time… they won’t overlook me.

Watch me shine.

ℛ. ✧

Raya closed her journal with a decisive snap, the little flame at the end of her signature swirling in her mind like a promise. She was done—for now.

Her phone buzzed softly on the nightstand, something she hadn’t noticed before, buried beneath a pile of half-forgotten notifications.

Curious, she reached for it, blinking at the bright screen.

“Club meeting tomorrow morning at 9 AM. Be there. —Prof. Langston”

Nine in the morning. On a Saturday.

Raya groaned, muffling it into her pillow.

Of course.

She tossed her journal on the bed and rolled over, willing sleep to come faster.

The next morning, the English Lit club room smelled faintly of old paper and too-strong coffee. The fluorescent lights hummed quietly overhead.

Raya was already there—of course she was—perched on a window ledge with a hot cup of tea, her notebook open and pen poised like a weapon.

She glanced at the clock. 8:45 AM.

Ryan Reynolds strolled in with perfect timing: exactly 9:00 on the dot. Hands casually tucked into his jacket pockets, a slight, smug smile playing on his lips like he owned the place.

“Morning,” he said, voice smooth as silk but with just a hint of amusement. “Early bird catches the worm?”

Raya arched an eyebrow, setting down her tea. “More like an early bird proves they care. You know, the people who actually work.”

Ryan shrugged, taking a seat like he was settling in for a nap rather than a meeting. “Some of us prefer to conserve energy until it’s absolutely necessary.”

She rolled her eyes, but her lips twitched.

“Alright,” she said, tapping her notebook. “First order of business. Theme ideas.”

Ryan leaned forward, flashing that infuriating grin. “I was thinking of something classic. Elegant. Maybe ‘Whispers of the Past.’ You know, nostalgia, subtlety…”

Raya shook her head. “Too safe. Too… sleepy. We need something that hits like lightning. Bold. Raw. ‘Voices Unleashed.’ Something that screams relevance.”

“‘Screams’ isn’t exactly the vibe I’m going for,” Ryan said, raising an eyebrow. “We want people to listen, not cover their ears.”

She leaned back, matching his calm with fire. “Sometimes you have to break the silence to be heard.”

A silence fell between them. Neither was willing to back down.

Finally, Ryan smirked. “Looks like this festival’s going to be more interesting than I thought.”

Raya smiled, the challenge sparking between them. “Good. Because I’m not here to play it safe. Neither are you...”

Raya’s words still hung in the air when the door burst open with a dramatic whoosh.

“DID I MISS THE DUEL?”

Tessa strutted in, oversized iced coffee in hand, sunglasses still on despite the fact that they were very much indoors.

Raya blinked. “You’re… three minutes late.”

Tessa waved a perfectly manicured hand. “Fashionably. It’s a branding thing.” She turned toward Ryan. “You must be the broody boy wonder.”

Ryan blinked. “I—what?”

Tessa took the chair between them like a queen settling onto a throne. “Ryan Reynolds, right? Westbridge’s mysterious literary ghost. The one who shows up, drops a metaphor, vanishes, and somehow gets crowned king?”

Raya choked on her tea.

Ryan gave her a dry look. “That’s… one way to put it.”

“I like you,” Tessa said brightly. “You look like you could use a planner and a crisis. Raya’s already got both.”

“Tessa,” Raya hissed, trying not to laugh. “Focus.”

Tessa sipped her coffee like she wasn’t the agent of chaos. “So. Themes?”

Ryan cleared his throat. “I suggested Whispers of the Past.”

Tessa immediately made a face. “Mm. Sounds like a haunted house tour.”

Raya smirked. “Thank you.”

“What about Unwritten Reveries?” Tessa offered, tapping her acrylic nail on the table. “Bit dreamy. Bit rebellious. Still poetic.”

Ryan tilted his head. “Not bad.”

Raya narrowed her eyes. “Are we agreeing on something? Already? That feels… suspicious.”

Ryan’s lips curved. “Don’t get used to it.”

Tessa clapped her hands. “Ooh, I love this vibe. Enemies-to-co-leaders. Very academic rom-com. Sparks. Deadlines. Possibly a shared Google Drive folder and some light bickering at open mic night.”

Raya groaned. “Please stop narrating our lives.”

“Never,” Tessa said. “Anyway, whatever we pick—theme, title, color palette—I say we make it bold, fresh, and impossible to ignore. Like Raya’s eyeliner.”

“Like your volume setting?” Ryan muttered.

Tessa grinned. “Exactly.”

The meeting continued—fast-paced, chaotic, passionate. Ideas scribbled across whiteboards, interrupted by bickering, laughter, and the occasional dramatic gasp (courtesy of Tessa).

And beneath it all, an electric current neither Raya nor Ryan could quite name yet.

But they felt it.

They both felt it.